


Four memories that hurt, and one that doesn't

by BarefootGirl



Category: Leverage
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 03:14:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/769316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarefootGirl/pseuds/BarefootGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5 memories Nate has of his son</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four memories that hurt, and one that doesn't

He knew, before Maggie told him. He knew her body so well, had sensed the changes under his fingertips, under his lips. But he waited, letting her choose the time and place. She would wait until she was sure, until she was ready.

That was all right. Nate Ford could be patient, when he needed to be.

He was going to be a father. And he, oh he would do it right.

\-------------------

Maggie didn’t share his faith, but she understood it. There was never any doubt that Sam would be baptized, or that it would be Paul who performed it. 

Sam rested in his arms, quietly trusting, even when the cool water touched his skin and the stranger placed his hand on his head.

“There you go,” he whispered to his son. “Trust daddy. He’ll take care of you.”

\-----------------------------

Sam’s first snowfall wasn’t some dusting, or a mountaintop glamour. They were back in Boson, visiting family, and a real blizzard hit. Four feet of snow in 24 hours, and Sam, 5 years old and bundled into a hastily-bought snowsuit, was learning how to make his first snowball.

His fingers frozen, his ears red and numb, his wife and son laughing at him, Nate Ford had never been happier.

\------------------------------

Sam was sick. He was running a fever, and his eyes were bright, his skin flushed. Nate gathered him into his arms, lowering him into the bath.

“It’s cold, daddy.”

“I know. But it will make you feel better. Bring down the fever.”

“ok.”

And as easily as that, blue eyes looking up at him with absolute faith, Sam settled into the tub of cool water, only shivering a little as the water hit his skin. 

\--------------------------

The grass is green, well-manicured. The paths are an off-white gravel, treading between somber and lovely, and benches of wrought iron dot the landscape, placed where pedestrians might feel the need to sit and take in the quiet.

Too quiet. No one has ever played here. The residents are still, encased in dirt, wood and stone. Nate never sits. There is too much wound up inside him to sit. He paces, he circles, and when he finally steels himself he kneels, as though he were on a wooden pew, and bends his head as he bends before nothing else. 

He does not speak. He does not let himself believe the dead can hear. The dead are gone, they no longer suffer. That, he knows all too well, is left for the living.

Cake, and candles, and shreds of wrapping paper all over the patio. The happy squeals of a boy who lived totally in the moment. He holds onto that, filling the silence with the memory of sound. 

“Happy birthday, Sam,” he says, and his voice no longer cracks.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LiveJournal in 2010.


End file.
